No longer umpire

Don Dean wasn't an umpire, he was a dickhead, or to be exact, he was a dickhead of an umpire, which is more or less the same.
In fact, Don Dean hated baseball, he just made a living out of it, and he did it because he was an American, and his father was an umpire too, although his favorite sports were soccer and eating cheeseburgers.

No-one knows how Don Dean became the most important umpire of his generation, his decisions were always unfair, arbitrary and outraging, he was racist, rude, aggressive, ignorant, foulmouthed and stupid.

No-one knows why Don Dean was never punched in the face, he was the most punchable twat ever, and every game in which he was present, turned into a constant argument, beginning to end.



During a game in which he was massively booed, Dean reacted improperly throwing balls at the indignant fans and showing them his Micky Mouse underwear, notwithstanding nothing happened, Don Dean wasn't suspended, because he was the husband of the niece of a cousin of the uncle of a nephew of the son of a daughter of the mother-in-law of a friend of the aunt of the president of the United States.

Finally, one day, after a violent argument with a player called Mort Mortenson, Don Dean pulled a handgun and shot five times, killing Mortenson in front of the stupefied audience and TV cameras that broadcasted the event live, coast to coast.

The details of this horrid crime were on the radio and TV, night and day, even Oprah mentioned the event with horror in her face... but Don Dean wasn't sent to jail, he just had to deposit a symbolic bail of 12 dollars.

He wasn't allowed to take the gun to the stadiums anymore, though.


Notwithstanding, and similarly to the Greek myth, Don Dean would meet his Nemesis the day 5 of July of 199..?
After a cynical interview in which he declared his innocence, stating that "Satan pulled the trigger of that gun", Dean returned home, late at night.


















That was the last time Don Dean was seen.

No-one has a fucking clue about his disappearance, not even his family.

He went back home that night, his wife saw him, and his son too, but, in the course of the night, he simply disappeared.

His keys, his driver's license, his wallet and his cellphone were there, on a chair in the bedroom.
But Don Dean simply wasn't there. The gun was under the bed, as always, untouched.

Nothing was found, no trace, nothing, nothing at all.

But a note.












A note found on the bedside table, an indecipherable, puzzling and gut-wrenching paper.

The wife said that it was Don Dean's handwriting, but the son said that it was not Don Dean's handwriting:







"No more tomorrow... but today, ***** ***** *** ****, ***, isn't it?"

John Naked.